Bad Decisions

“Reggie, there’s someone at the door!” Pandora’s voice carried down the hall, muffled slightly by the bathroom door.

Regulus groaned, dragging a hand through his hair as he pulled on the first shirt within reach. It was one of Dorcas’s old band tees—oversized, soft, and perpetually slipping off his shoulders. The summer heat wasn’t helping, and the shirt clung to his damp skin in all the wrong ways.

He padded barefoot to the door, tugging the hem of the shirt down as he reached for the handle. When he opened it, instead of a person, he found... a single rose.

“What the hell?” he muttered, stepping out into the hallway. It was empty, save for the distant hum of someone’s TV and the faint smell of cigarette smoke. He glanced left, then right, but there was no sign of anyone. With a resigned sigh, he picked up the flower and shut the door behind him.

“What is that?”

Regulus startled, spinning around to see Barty standing there like some unholy apparition, shirtless and still wearing the bottom half of Evan’s favorite plaid pajamas.

“Bloody hell, Barty!” Regulus snapped, clutching the rose like a weapon.

“Sorry,” Barty said with a smirk that made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all. His eyes darted to the flower. “Secret admirer? Or secret boyfriend?”

“Neither,” Regulus said flatly, though his stomach churned at the thought. He set the rose down on the kitchen counter, noticing a small piece of paper tucked beneath the petals.

Barty leaned over his shoulder. “A note? Oh, this just got interesting.”

“Can you give me a second?” Regulus shot back, snatching the paper before Barty could grab it. He made his way to the couch, moving aside Pandora’s mountain of pillows and blankets—she’d been camping out at their place all week because her apartment was, in her words, “spiritually compromised.”

Regulus sank into his usual spot, the right corner of the couch, and unfolded the note. His hands were trembling, though he wasn’t sure why. The paper was pale pink, the handwriting loopy and elegant.

"More to come, little star.”

Regulus stared at the words, a mix of dread and annoyance washing over him.

“‘Little star’?!” Barty practically cackled, flopping onto the couch beside him. “I haven’t heard anyone call you that since—”

“Don’t,” Regulus cut him off, shoving the note into a ball. “It’s probably some idiot with too much time on their hands.”

He stood and marched to the kitchen, tossing the note into the trash with more force than necessary.

“Or it’s a murderer,” Barty called from the couch, still grinning.

Regulus shot him a glare. “Not everything is a conspiracy, Barty.”

“Not everything *isn’t,*” Barty replied, flipping onto his stomach and propping his chin in his hands. “You’ve got to admit, it’s creepy. Just a rose and a note? That’s like the opening scene of every true crime podcast ever.”

Regulus ignored him, but his eyes drifted back to the rose.

“Pity to throw it away,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

“Then don’t,” Barty called. “Stick it in some water. Maybe whoever left it will come back and explain themselves. Or maybe you’ll just have a nice rose to brighten the place up. Win-win.”

Regulus sighed, grabbing a red glass from the cupboard—one of those cheap ones they only ever used at Christmas. He filled it with water and carried it to his room, placing it on the windowsill. The stem felt delicate as he dipped it into the glass, the petals brushing against his fingers.

For a moment, he stared at the flower, a strange unease prickling at the back of his neck.

“More to come,” he muttered under his breath.

The words hung heavy in the room, but Regulus pushed them aside. It was probably nothing. Probably.

Regulus heard the front door creak open, followed by the unmistakable bickering of Barty and Evan. He rolled his eyes, staring at the red glass on his windowsill for a moment before shuffling over to grab his journal.

“Buy a vase,” he wrote in his reminders, scrawling it down with half a thought. Might as well make the most of it, right? He closed the notebook and set it back on his cramped dresser. His room, the smallest of their apartment, had been the last pick. Still, he’d made it his—crowded shelves, scattered books, and all.

As he was puttinf the journal back to its place in his shelf another journal fell out. Lether bound that has clearly seen beyyer days

As Regulus moved to pick up the journal, it felt like it weighed more than it should. The pages, crammed with years of past lives, pressed against him as though they were alive, determined to drag him back into a past he had long buried. His fingers trembled as he cracked it open, a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach as the words stared back at him.

But even the briefest glance was enough. The memory erupted inside his mind like a bomb.

“I bet you that vase is going to break,” a voice whined, sharp and relentless, echoing inside his skull.

It was the sound of his younger self, the arrogance of a boy who thought he could control everything, even fate. He could practically see the scene—see the house, hear the bickering, the tension thick in the air.

Another voice joined in, lighter, laughing. “Aunt Wally would lose her mind if that thing breaks.”

The image of their mother flooded his mind. Her cold gaze. The way she used to throw things when she was angry. The vase—the one he had *bet* would survive—was now a symbol of everything that was lost, everything that shattered because of him.

“It’s so unsteady!” the high-pitched voice whined again. “It’s going to break. I know it!”

“Gravity,” young Regulus had mumbled, distracted, lost in his book. He had known—believed—it would be fine.

It’ll break because you’ll do something stupid—those words were like knives, slashing, none of them knew how right they’d been. None of them knew that the vase would break, but not because of him—no, it would shatter because their mother had thrown it, in a fit of rage, when Regulus left for good.

Deal!

His hands shook as he gripped the journal tighter, the words blurring in his vision as memories rushed forward, crashing over him like a tidal wave.

"You are just as cowardly as your brother!"

“Stop,” he gasped, his chest tight, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “Stop, stop, stop, STOP—” His voice broke, and he couldn't get the words out fast enough. His heart pounded as the room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around him. His hands trembled violently, and his pulse roared in his ears like a freight train. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

And then—just as the world began to crumble in on him—a warm pair of arms enveloped him from behind, pulling him back to reality.

Pandora.

Her skin was damp from the shower, and her wet hair clung to his neck, a small but grounding sensation. Her voice was low, almost whispering, but it cut through the panic like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you, Reg,” she murmured, her tone soft but firm, as though she were speaking directly to the raw, fractured parts of him.

“They keep coming back, Panda,” he choked, his body shaking violently as the memories refused to fade. “I can’t... I can’t—”

He couldn’t get the words out fast enough, the panic building inside him like a wildfire. It felt as though everything he had locked away was rising up to suffocate him. His breath came in frantic gasps.

“Shh,” she soothed, pulling him closer, her voice steady as her fingers rubbed circles on his back. “You’re alright. You’re safe. I’m here.”

But it didn’t feel like it. The room felt too small, the air too thick. He could still hear the voice of his younger self, taunting him with the knowledge that he couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the damage. His mind screamed at him—there was no escaping it, no running from what he had lost.

“You don’t have to make it stop,” Pandora whispered, her hand never leaving his back, her presence anchoring him to something real, something safe. “You don’t have to fix it. Just feel it. Let it out, Reg.”

The words were gentle, but they sliced through the panic like a breath of fresh air.

"I thought I could forget it," he gasped, his chest still heaving with every breath, his tears running unchecked. "I thought I could leave it all behind. But it keeps coming back. I can’t—”

“You don’t have to leave it behind,” Pandora said softly, her voice steady as she leaned her forehead against his back. “You don’t have to forget. You just have to live with it. It’s part of who you are. And you’re not alone in this.”

Her arms tightened around him, and the frantic noise in his head started to fade, little by little. It didn’t go away, not completely, but it quieted. The feeling of Pandora’s presence grounded him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, even when the memories felt suffocating.

“You’re not a mess,” she whispered, her hand slipping into his, her grip solid and reassuring. “You’re our mess. And we’re not going anywhere.”

The words didn’t fix everything. They didn’t wipe the past away. But they were enough. For the first time in what felt like years, Regulus allowed himself to rest, allowed himself to feel something other than the weight of what he’d lost.

As his breath slowed, he felt his body relax against Pandora’s, her warmth seeping into his bones. His thoughts were still a mess, but he wasn’t drowning in them anymore.

Pandora was right. He didn’t have to make it stop. All he had to do was let it out. And, somehow, in that moment, that was enough.